Getting penetrated by a huge, black dong barely hurts when you’re on a lot of pills
September 27, 2011 § 4 Comments
But it’s not getting raped that bothered me so much. It hurt more getting raped by a teenager with a pencil dick when I was four than it did being raped by this dude in my shitty cinderblock efficiency apartment when I was 22. Rape kind of stopped being a big deal by the third time it’d happened to me, despite having to act under the pretense that I wanted to take back the night, or some shit.
I go way the fuck out of my way all the goddamn time to come off as one thing or another. Like, if I’m going to the gym, I’ll totally wear some sort of outfit that screams to everyone at the Jamba Juice that I’m going to or have been at the gym. I don’t even like Jamba Jizz, it just seems like the sort of thing a person who goes to the gym will drink. Or, like, I’ll totally be super nice to homeless people, but I make sure to do it in the biggest, most public way I can. If nobody was looking, I make sure to come home and post about it on Facebook. “Wow. I thought I was having a bad day until I saw that homeless guy with shitty pants, so then I gave him my pants and basically saved his homeless life.”
I go way the fuck out of my way to make sure everyone knows that I’m not a racist. I fist bump and say stuff is fresh. I have deep conversations about the under-use of blacktors in commercials. I write moving articles about the injustice system and how they use prisons to keep minorities down. I walk around in bad neighborhoods and nod at people.
So when my chubby ass was sitting outside the crap apartment complex, and my neighbor walked by with skin as black as the thoughts of a serial killer, I did my whole not-a-racist nod and we chit chatted about Africa, and we chit chatted about how he was in college, and when he asked me if I wanted to come in and watch a movie, of course I went, my double chinned freckled head bobbing pleasantly, complimenting his floral print couch.
Which I guess meant he should put on some porn. And I guess I should have done more than just politely finishing the fruit punch and saying it was nice meeting him while the movie was still on, dicks and titties and bad bleach jobs with moans and groans. I guess what I should have said was, “Don’t come over to my apartment and rape me, okay?” But I’m not a racist, and I figured mentioning that I didn’t want him raping me would be kind of racist.
But black dudes, let me say something to you right the fuck now. Stop raping fat, white chicks. It’s not good for your complexion.
I gotta say that it worked out well for him, though. I mean, at the time I was on anti-psychotics, had just been court ordered to stop drinking, was estranged from my husband, and was involved in legal troubles of my own. So, when he came into my unlocked apartment where I lay on a sheetless futon wearing a skirt, and I was passed out from the pills, he had no idea how much gold he was striking as he poked away at my pussy, then ass, then pulled out and wiped his jizz off with a piece of toilet paper, dropping it on the floor, and leaving behind DNA evidence.
Because I called the cops. And eventually this did go to trial. And his fucking bitch face fat white fiance? She looked just like me. And the DA played recordings of him denying he had ever even met me until they said they had his jizz rag. And I thought, fuck, man! If I were on the jury I’d see that he had a type, for sure. And I thought, I guess one more black guy’s going to jail for raping a fat white woman. And I felt pretty sad about it, too.
But what the jury saw was much different. They saw a fat, troubled mental case, living in squalor, who needed to get a big black dude to fuck her then cry rape so she could get the sympathy of her estranged husband, so she went to the guy’s place, watched some porn, fucked him, then waited three days, holding on to the cum rag, then calling the cops and going to the hospital to have a rape kit done. Had any of the members of the jury ever had a rape kit done; laid with their sandwich meat looking labia exposed while a doctor uses tweezers to pull out pube stubble, they must have thought I was pretty dedicated to getting my useless, ineffective, dead beat stoner husband to take me back.
And when they came back with their not guilty verdict, and his disgusting fiancé flipped me off and sneered, and I sat there feeling like someone had kicked me in the back of the head, I guess I realized that I’m not the only one putting up appearances. A whole fucking jury had to go so far out of their way to seem not racist, that they chose to ignore reality and fist bump a rapist.
Anyway, whatever. My life wasn’t ruined by the rape, or the trial. I don’t lay awake at night in fear or write sad songs about things being taken away, and I don’t go to support groups, looking off at something beyond everyone’s shoulder as I meltdown over some part of the rape memory, like the way the sheets smelled like cherries and how I can never again eat a cherry. I’m unharmed and only slightly changed by it.
I guess all I’m saying is, if I’m going to do my part to be color-blind, black men, please do your part to stop doing stereotypical black men stuff.